


Nimble Fingers

by angrythingstarlight



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Chris Evans - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, avengers chris evans, christopher evans - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27782962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrythingstarlight/pseuds/angrythingstarlight
Summary: Chris gazes thoughtfully past the natural decoration, his focus purely on you. His forehead resting against the frosty glass, a sigh clouding up the glass briefly before fading away.He should have known better than to ask Scott to watch Dodger today. He should have suspected something when Scott agreed too hastily, eagerly.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Reader, Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader
Kudos: 67





	Nimble Fingers

Snowflakes drifts from the shimmering silvery sky, settling on the backyard, hints of emerald green grass peaking through the piles of feathery snow. The golden leaves dangling from the large trees dampened by the dusting of snow, the branches bending precariously under the chilling breeze. A delicate lace of frost and crystalline snowflakes cling to the office window.

Chris gazes thoughtfully past the natural decoration, his focus purely on you. His forehead resting against the frosty glass, a sigh clouding up the glass briefly before fading away. 

He should have known better than to ask Scott to watch Dodger today. He should have suspected something when Scott agreed too hastily, eagerly, when he had hung up before Chris finished his sentence. 

Scott adores you, and Chris’s crush on you brings him unbridled joy. Not often he can make his brother suffer, lovingly of course, the way he has these past few months. 

He really should have known better. 

A pitiful groan echoes in the office when he thinks about this morning. Every other time, he’s seen you he’s had time to prepare, look his best. Not this morning.

He had on a pair of faded blue checkered pajama pants and one black sock when he answered the door. His hair on end, sticking out everywhere, he didn’t even brush his teeth.

To make things worse, you looked gorgeous. You always do.

This morning, even more so with the sun casting a glow around you, as you stamped the snow off your feet. Your dark charcoal coat hugging your figure, the black jeans and burgundy snow boots, picture perfect.

You looked him up and down and cringed. “Rough night, huh”.

He glanced down at his bare foot. Was that a hole near his crotch, fuck he was burning these the second you left.  
Before he could think of a coherent response, you shoved a cup of coffee in his hand, pushing past him, calling out for Dodger. Throwing yourself on the floor when the pup ran into the room. His excited yips making you both smile. 

“Scott asked me to come over”, you laughed as Dodger jumped on you, trying to lick your face, “He had something come up and felt bad”. 

Sure he did, Chris lists all the ways he can hurt his brother without upsetting ma. 

“Hope it’s okay, I’m here,”. 

You looked up at him, holding Dodger’s wiggling head between your hands. That smile that’s been fueling some very wet dreams lately. He not so subtly glances down at the front of his pants, thanking every known entity that there’s only the hole there. Holding back a cough when you follow his eyes, you cringe again, deciding to hide your smile in Dodgers fur.

“Yeah”, he replied. Smooth, Chris, real smooth.  
Clearing his throat, he searched for something clever to say, scratching the back of his shoulder. “Uh, yeah yeah, of course”. 

And he left. 

Simply walked upstairs, leaving you bewildered on his floor 

Lightly banging his head on the wall when he heard you yell out, “I’ll just make myself at home then”. Your pretty laughter following him up the stairs. “Cmon Dodge, let’s go eat”. 

When he texted Scott, he called back so that Chris could hear him laugh until he hung up the phone. 

He barely made it through his conference calls and Zoom meetings. He kept slipping up, almost saying your name, doodling your picture on his documents. 

Worse than any high school crush he had. 

When you had popped your head in with a sandwich and water, he forgot he was talking with two senators. 

He could feel the goofy grin stretch his face as he watched you tiptoe in the room, crouching down to slide the plate beside his screen, giving him a thumbs up before closing the door again. 

He had finished the last meeting ten minutes ago. Closing his laptop with a sigh of relief, the stress melting off of him in waves. Drawn to the window by the sound of Dodger’s barking. 

Turning your face up to the winter sky, you stick out your tongue, the cold wet flakes melting on your tongue. Dodger prances around you, pushing his nose into the banks of snow covering his favorite leaf pile. 

After a few minutes of watching the pup play, you clap your hands together, calling out his name. He runs up to you, shaking off his fur, making you put up your hands to protect your face from the flying snow. Laughing, you bring the dog inside, watching him zoom around the living room.

You go back outside, looking for his toys. You’re bent over to get his tennis ball when you feel a rush of wet and frigid snow slide down your neck. Shrieking, you stand up, and it shifts down your back. You scream, twisting as it moves down your formerly warm skin, “You asshole”. You look down, shaking your head.

Chris gawks at you, his lips parted in shock, a flush rising beneath his beard. You angrily stomp off behind one of the large trees. When you hear him running after you, apologizing, you scoop down and gather an enormous chunk of snow in your hands, not even bothering to make a ball. You fling it up, smacking him in the face with it. 

Laughing when it plops down his hat, sticking to his reddish-brown beard. Placing your hands on your hips, you tilt your head, “And now we’re even”.

He nods, wiping off his face, “We sure are”.

You both stare at each other for a second. The faint rustle of birds above you, the only sound in the quiet yard. The breeze winding down to a low whistle, the snowfall fading away.

His brow twitches and your eyes narrow. You take off past the second tree, skidding to a stop to grab more snow, tossing it over your shoulder without looking. Yelling ha when you hear a gahdamn behind you.

Back and forth you run, hitting each other with poorly formed snowballs, each one smaller than the last as the yard runs out of snow. You’re searching for more when you hear soft crunching of his shoes behind you. Turning, your foot slips on an icy patch of grass. It happens so fast, you can barely gasp, closing your eyes at the inevitable impact.

Huffing when you hit the ground, his hands behind your head, cushioning the blow. His large body on yours. 

His large, sweater covered body on yours.

“You okay”, he asks, his hands smoothing over your head, checking for injuries, “I got you”.

His body is on you. He feels good, warm. 

“Uh huh” you mutter distractedly. Maybe you did hit your head, cause all you can smell is him, the masculine hints of sandalwood, fir and something you can’t quite place. And his warmth. He’s so warm, you feel it ooze through your coat. You wouldn’t be shocked if the ground was scorched beneath you.

Oh, you’ve thought about this.  
Not quite like this.

But him on top of you, his weight pressing into you, those large hands claiming your body.

You’re becoming wet in more places than before. So wet you’re afraid that it’ll seep through your jeans and leave a stain on that pant clad thigh slotted between your legs. 

His eyes drop to your lips.

Oh.  
You like that look.

It sends signals down to your pussy, throbbing, pulsating under that damn thigh that shifting across it, pressing against your bud.

You would have moaned, but you can’t even breathe right now. His parted mouth hovering above yours. Fascinated by the slow widening of his pupils, those deep blue eyes remain on your lips.

Your heart beating so hard, your ribcage hurts. Kiss me, kiss me. 

His head dips, just a little. The movement almost unnoticeable, but now his beard is grazing your face. Light prickling on your chin, puffs of cool minty fresh breath on your lips

Those blue eyes slide up to yours, Kiss me, please. For a second, you think he will and you want him to take you on the grass, you dont care that you’re out in the open.

You want him.

And then he’s rolling off of you. His back towards you as he stands up, dusting off his jeans.

And you’re cold in an instant. A heady rush of embarrassment chasing the chill sweeping through your body. 

Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you ignore his outstretched hand, and struggle to your feet. Grateful you didn’t slip, not wanting his hands on you. 

Liar, a traitorous little voice whispers. The aching throb in your cunt agreeing with it. You tell both of them to shut up, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I should get going” you state to the patch of grass next to his white sneakers. The tremor in your voice ridiculously obvious. You can feel your eyes glistening, it’s bad enough you though he wanted you, you will be damned if you cry in front of him.

Chris is frantically thinking of ways to fix this. For once, he’s not sure what to say. He can’t explain how he keeps fucking up with you, but how many chances is he going to get. He opens his mouth, the words getting stuck in his chest when he sees your eyes.

You trudge to the house, letting your arms swing down. Your sweater dripping from the ends, your boots squishing as you make your way to the steps.

“Dry off,”

You pause, one foot on the first step, hand on the railing. He walks behind you, “Dry off, Ill make you some cocoa while your clothes are in the dryer”, he pleads, the words tumbling out.

You are cold and the thought of driving home like this is just as bad as whatever is happening now. Might as well be warm and rejected, starting to shiver in the cool air.

“Please,”

You nod, keeping your eyes averted when he steps around you, opening the door. You follow him up the stairs, the tension palpable, beating with your aching heart. You’re confused when he leads you past the guest room to his bedroom. Your eyes sweeping past the simple king size bed, family pictures on the wooden dressers, tv mounted on the wall. Various toys scattered on the floor.

He opens the bathroom door, putting a towel and washcloth on the sink, “There’s soap and stuff in here”.

You nod again, looking at tiny half chewed plastic cow. Chris hesitates, taking a step toward you, stopping when you back up.

“Ill leave you some clothes”.

You walk around him, shutting the bathroom door. Leaning your head back, wiping off your face you take a deep breath. Stripping off the sopping clothes, you push them out the door before you turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up.

Chris waits until he hears the soft click of the door before going to his closet. He finds the sweater and searches through his dresser for underwear. Scooping your clothes off the ground, he goes down stairs.

Throwing your wet clothes into the dryer with a couple of fabric sheets. He paces in the living room. He has to get you to stay, he should have kissed you. Taking a few deep breaths, he wills his nerves to settle.

She’s in your shower, he stops palming his crotch, thoughts of your wet naked body above him flash in his mind. He pulls his hand away, forcing himself to think about the Patriots as he rearranges the living room. He nearly done adjusting the lighting, when he hears the shower stop. He sits on the bench, cracking his fingers.

You run your hand across the oversized soft cable-knit sweater before picking it up. Pulling it beneath your nose, you inhale the fresh scent of his fabric softener. Who knew Chris was a Downy guy, you think, smiling into the material. Pushing your arms into the sleeves, you tug the sweater over your head. It falls around your hips. Reaching down, you take the black briefs from the bed.

You have one leg in when you hear the first soft notes. Random notes drifting up from the living room. Seconds pass between them as if he’s warming up, trying to find the right song. You shove your other leg in, hopping slightly to pull them up. They fit perfectly around your waist and ass, and you wonder if these are really his clothes. 

Hearing more notes, you pad back into the bathroom, taking a quick glance at your hair and face. You shrug, you look good to you and that’s good enough for him. A familiar tune plays, the music gets louder when you open the bedroom door. 

Walking down the hallway, you smile at the sleeping Dodger in front of the closet, his head on his stuffed lion. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, you raise yourself on your tiptoes trying to see into the living room. 

Your brows furrow at the sight below you. The pale white couch is in front of the piano. Several candles lit on the mantle, casting dancing flickering shadows and light across the room. Grabbing the bannister, you lean over to get a better view; the movement catching Chris’ eyes. His fingers halt on the black and white keys. A wide grin across his plump lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His adam’s apple bobs twice before he opens his mouth, “Hey” 

“Hi”, you reply, sinking back to the floor. You’re painfully aware that he’s watching you walk down the stairs, you focus on each step, willing yourself to not trip in front of him. Not understanding why such a simple task is suddenly so difficult. 

Reaching the bottom, you roll up the sleeves to your elbows, tugging the sweater down as you move into the living room. Chris resumes playing, his blue eyes glancing at your legs. He loves the way you look in his sweater. He bought this just for you, getting it a few sizes too big when you had casually mentioned that you love wearing baggy clothes during the fall. The plush knit blanket draped over the couch was another thing he got for you in your favorite color, wanting you to have endless comfort items. 

You sit on the couch, tucking your legs into the sweater, resting your chin on your covered knees. 

The sun sets behind him, the living room comforting, the sting of the incident outside fading away. The music lulling you, his nimble fingers moving with ease over the keys. You feel yourself drifting to sleep, eyelids getting heavy. 

“I messed up, got nervous”. he murmurs. Your eyes snap up to his face. He looks at you, that look from before. More intense now, his hands not stopping. You stare back until he looks away, “I should have kissed you”,

“You should have”, you retort, thinking back to how he felt on top of you. You wonder how he would feel without the layers of clothing, your thighs clenching at the thought. His muscular arms moving under the cream sweater.

The tune switches, an complicated, beautiful melody. You’re mesmerized by his fingers, effortlessly moving across the keys. “I didn’t know you played”. 

He hums, shrugging his broad shoulder. “There’s a lot you dont know about me”. Ill tell you everything, give you everything if you were mine. Make a move. She said you should have, stop being a coward. 

“How did you get so good?”. 

And it happens. 

A thought pops in his head. Risky, but if he pulls it off, it will be worth it. Licking his dry lips, his eyes dart at you again. Taking in your form, that sweater folded around you, your pretty eyes following his fingers, moving back up to his face before looking down. 

Fuck. That’s fascinating. 

He sits up, clenching and unclenching his hands, shaking out his fingers. Your eyes watching every movement. 

Fuck me well. 

“I can show you”, he says, voice deepening, “Can I?”

You look back at his face, oh that look burns through you. You squeak out a soft yes and then he’s standing over you. Towering over your seated body, pushing his sleeves up, revealing his hair covered forearms. “Scoot back”. 

You move until your back hits the couch. He takes your ankles and turns you around, pulling down until your flat on the couch. 

“Chris- what”, you stammer, flustered. Your hand grabbing the blanket, blinking up at him.

He smiles, a hint of cockiness enhancing his words. “I’m going to show you how I got so good”. 

Crouching down, he taps your ankle with his middle finger first, then his index finger. Humming under his breath, he moves up your leg, adding his other hand. 

Gentle taps of his fingertips on your soft skin. Tapping up and down your calf, back down to your ankle. Then up to your knee, back and forth, moving further north each time.

You wait with bated breath, uncertain of what to do with your hands, you clasp them together. Swallowing thickly, his briefs clinging to your damp core.

Looking at you out of the corner of his eye, he plays his quiet melody up your leg, his fingers grazing your inner thighs. He stops and waits, those fingers dancing on your skin, soft pads of his fingertips stilling on your skin, he glances up at you through his long eyelashes.

Seeing your reaction, they resume their march up to the band of the briefs, moving around the elastic, hooking under the band.

“Can I?”. He murmurs. You reach over, rubbing the back of your head against his cheek.

You open your legs, lifting your hips. He slides the briefs down, tossing them behind the couch. His fingers move back up your legs, impatiently wanting to feel your skin on his.

Sliding a hand beneath your thigh, he pushes up, bending your knee. Your slick coating your folds, growing wetter under his intense gaze. Blood rushing to your head, a dull roar in your ears. You ache so bad it almost hurts.

”Its about setting a goal, deciding what you want”, he whispers, those long nimble fingers teasing the inside of your thighs.

For a moment, you forget what he’s talking about, “What do you want” you sigh when he dips his forehead down to yours.

His eyes sink down to your lips, moving his just above yours. He pulls back again and before that familiar twinge of embarrassment can take over, his lips are brushing against yours, soft chapped swipes that leave you yearning for me.

“You” he breathes in to your mouth, his lips slanting against yours, deepening the kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth.

He breaks away, panting slightly, his confidence growing when you whine, his hand sliding up your thighs. .

“You have to get familiar with your keys”. Two fingers search through your folds, gliding up and down, an agonizingly slow movement until he finally, finally reaches your aching clit. Smirking at your light gasp, his thumb moving back and forth, moving in intricate patterns, each stroke tightening the coil in your belly.

Another long, thick finger traces your entrance, “You can’t rush or the music won’t sound right”. His words breaking through your haze of pleasure.

“So you ease into”. he murmurs, his eyes watching your lips fall open when he sinks into your heat. His thumb lazily swiping your clit, a second finger, and then oh. Your hips moving on their own accord. 

His beard gracing your neck, soft chaste kisses on your skin, as if he weren’t knuckle deep in you.

“Find the right hand position”, He curves his fingers, a slight twist of his wrist, his fingers moving faster, a soft sloshing running under your moans.

“And you have to listen”. His eyes observe you, twisting in and out until you keen when he hits that spot. It feels so good, you buck your hips chasing more of that sensation. He flexes his wrist, striking it over and over, his palm grinding on your bud. 

You push your leg up higher, opening yourself up more, feeling that coil continue to tighten, needing more. The pleasure increasing until you feel you can’t take anymore. Your hips grinding desperately against his rough palm.

He whispers in your ear, his voice deep, gravelly with lust “And when you find the right notes, practice over and over again”.

Slamming his fingers in and out of your cunt, desperate, needy sobs wrenched from your mouth. You’re so close, so close, and he flexes his wrist again, the coil unraveling. “Cum for me, let me feel you”

It springs loose, a rush of waves crashing down, drowning out the world, your body arching off the couch, his fingers working faster drawing out your pleasure until your thighs tremble, core clasped tight around those digits.

Chris groans, feeling you clench down around his fingers. Imagining your fluttering walls milking his cock. His erection straining through his pants. When you whimper, your body easing back on the couch, he slides his fingers out of you.

He waits until your eyes open, deeply, passionately kissing you. He sits back on his legs, popping his glistening fingers in his mouth, one by one.

“And that’s how I got good at piano”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @angrythingstarlight


End file.
